


Sansan One-Shots

by kenim



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19046590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenim/pseuds/kenim
Summary: A series of Sansan one-shots inspired either by Tumblr prompts (send me one here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/chocolate-tequila) or weird ideas all my own. Enjoy!(Please note that different warnings will apply to different chapters, and some chapters will contain explicit content. I will put warnings in the notes at the beginning of each chapter.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post season-finale-- Sandor falls back into Winterfell.

Sansa stood on the open-wall of her tower, watching the world beyond the gates. It had been silent for several days now, the only movement the snow being carried by the wind. That same wind lifted her red hair, blowing it around her slender face. She shivered and grabbed the hood of her cloak, tugging it over her head, hiding her crown. She spent so much time standing out here, starring at the horizon, wondering what had become of the world beyond Winterfell. She had seen the ruins of Kings Landing, had bid her siblings farewell, and had heard little since. It has only been a few weeks, she thought to herself, you will hear from them all in due-time.

The snow billowed in the distance, obscuring her view in a cloud of white. The wind whistled by, tossing her cloak around her. Slowly the cloud of snow faded, and a figure emerged. "Ser Olyver," she said immediately, turning her attention to the guard, who stood not far off, leaning against the entryway of the stone building. "Someone is approaching. See to him." Ser Olyver nodded, holding the pommel of his sheathed sword to keep it from bouncing against his leg as he ran, collecting a small group of men to stand guard at Winterfell's gates. 

Sansa could make out the shape of a large, dappled-grey horse as it approached, a large man riding hunched-over on its back. She could not say if the figure atop the horse was alive, or if it was a corpse that had been glued to the saddle. The figure made no movements as he and his steed approached, and did not even raise his head when Ser Olyver called for the gates to be open. They groaned and creaked as they opened, the sound akin to a child shouting, its echo bouncing off of Winterfell's stone walls. The only indication that the rider was alive was that he pulled the reins to bring his horse to a stand, the large steed perking his ears forward and starring at the men who had come to surround them.

"State your name and purpose." One of the surrounding knights demanded, holding his blade at arms length. The figure atop the horse just coughed, his body shaking with the action. His horse took a sudden step forward at the movement, and the figure gave another listless tug on the reins. "Dismount." The same knight commanded. The figure nodded, dropping his reins and removing his right foot from the stirrup, gathering his strength to swing his leg over his horse. He tried and failed to balance himself, and instead crashed into the snow, his hood falling from his face, it's shadow no-longer obscuring him.

"Get the Maester," Sansa shouted, recognizing that face. A few of her knights had as well, and hurriedly repeated her claim as she rushed to the stairs. She grabbed the fabric of her dress in her hands, lifting it as she raced down the stairs, never taking her eyes off of the fallen man. "Get the Maester!" She shouted again, ready to throw herself at the body in the snow, though Ser Olyver caught her.

"Your Grace, it's best you keep your distance." She fought against him, but not hard enough to pull free. "Ser Caine, Ser Danyel, assist me." Sansa kept her wits about her as Olyver released her, moving with the two other knights. They helped to lift the man to his feet, the entirety of his weight balance on them. They bowed under the pressure. 

"Get him the Maester," Sansa commanded, amazed at how calm and confident she sounded, when on the inside her heart felt like whirlwind in her chest. "He fought bravely alongside us in the Battle of Winterfell and in Kings Landing. He shall be treated with all the respect he is due. He is one of us," she commanded, surprised when she heard a light laugh come from the man she had assumed unconscious.

He opened his eyes, though seemed unable to focus. "Treated like royalty in the North. Not the worst fate for a Hound," he attempted to turn his burned, twisted face into a grin but failed, his head lolling forward again. Sansa watched in a panic as her men carried him away.

\-------

She had not been able to see him right away, despite her protesting. The Maester had kept her at bay, saying Clegane needed rest and peace before she were to speak with him. It was hard, to stay away, and she spent most of the day pacing outside his door, half-heartedly fulfilling her duties as they came about. Finally she was granted access to Sandor, and she walked to his bedside, pulling over a chair. It scraped against the stone, and though the sound sent chills up her spine, it did nothing to disturb the sleeping Sandor Clegane.

Sansa sat next to him, starring at him without reservation. She had so little chance to do that when he was awake, he was always making jibes either at her expense or his when he caught her starring. His burn looked terribly painful, with fresh burns on top of it, now covered in a thick, green salve. Other scratches covered his cheeks and chin, scratches that were sure to scar. His eyes were closed, but the sockets were a deep purple bruise. The cover for the bed was pull mid-way up his bare chest, and on his visible skin she saw deep and jagged cuts, and burns covering his shoulder, off-setting the scar on his face. 

She frowned at his broken state, and reached out a slender hand, wrapping it around his much larger one. His fingers clasped at hers. "Sandor?" She whispered. "Can you hear me?"

He muttered a "yes" and forced his eyes open. They were red and teary, and Sansa frowned deeper. "You should not have left," Sansa said, her thumb running over his knuckles.

"Had to," he muttered. "Had to take care of things."

"And did you?"

"'Course," he tried to grin again, but winced in pain instead. "The Mountain has fallen."

"And has almost buried the Hound with him," Sansa said softly, reaching her other hand out and wrapping it around his. 

"Aye, almost." She lifted on hand, reaching it to his face, brushing his long hair out of his eyes and letting her fingers rest on his cheek. His eyes met hers, unwavering.

"You should have stayed with me," she said, weaving her fingers gently through his hair, untangling it with care. It was corse in her hands, and needed a good wash. Once he was able to move she would be sure he was drawn a bath.

"Aye, I should have," he admitted, his eyes moving away from her. "I can swear to you that I will not leave again."

Sansa smiled softly, "I suppose that will have to do."

"I don't know what the promise of a dog is worth," he said shyly, still averting his gaze.

She moved her fingers to the soft skin under his chin, careful not to graze any of his newest wounds, and forced him to look-up at her. "It means everything." The confidence in her voice was unwavering, and she bent toward him, lightly brushing her lips against his.


	2. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sandor is still in King's Landing during the Red Wedding, and reaches-out to Sansa."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *CW - Mild references to suicide.*

She looked so broken, sitting there in her window, starring at the world below. Sandor wondered if she had considered throwing herself from it, and decided that yes, she had. He wondered what had stopped her. Perhaps the fact that she still had three living brothers and one living sister, perhaps the fact that she knew they needed her for whatever fresh hell would come on the morrow. He doubted she lived for herself.

He rapped his knuckles on her entryway lightly, and she turned her broken gaze to him. It was akin to being stabbed, a sharp pain in his heart that coursed through his body. He felt his face fall, though she gave no indication that she noticed his emotion. "Lady Sansa--"

"--Stop." Her voice was weak and strained from the hours of sobbing, but her word was demanding. "Stop the formalities, dog." It was the first time she had ever called him dog, and it felt like a slap to the face. Of course she would hate him. He was fool to think she wouldn't. He was cruel and sadistic, clothed in Lannister garb, the armor of her enemy. "What do you want of me?" She continued, her tear-reddened eyes still starring at him. Her bravery did not surprise him, but it did impress him.

"I want nothing," Sandor muttered, suddenly feeling a fool for coming to her side. How did he expect to be received? He was a dog. He should be treated as such. "I came to see you hadn't thrown yourself from the window." His words were harsher than he intended, and Sansa frowned, turning to stare back at the world below.

"No, I have not thrown myself from the window. I am not courageous enough," she spat with hatred in her tone. "Perhaps you could push me."

"Aye, but then I'd have to follow," he said drily, and Sansa turned to look at him again. Her expression was softer this time, and the tears she had somehow held at bay came pouring out. Sandor closed her chamber door behind him and crossed the room in a few easy strides, sitting down next to her. Her body was shaking as she sobbed, tears running down her face. 

"I can't even mourn them," she sobbed. "My father, my mother, my brother... They are all traitos, the lot of them. I should be glad they are dead." Sandor could feel his heart aching for her. He had no words for her. No words could make this better. Killing the Freys and every damned man involved would make things better. At least by his standard. "You're family is dead, too." 

Her words took him by surprise, and his body tensed. "My brother *is* a traitor."

"I'm sorry, Sandor. I'm sorry," Sansa repeated, and he felt her move close to him, laying her head on his chest, her body still shaking with sobs. He wondered how long she had been holding them in for. He knew the Imp had come to see her, and she had sent him away. Whenever anyone else approached she used the line about her family being traitors and sent them away. She had been alone in dealing with her troubles, save for a maid. He wrapped a large arm around her, pulling her close. She buried her head into his cloak then, and he let his hand weave through her hair.

He held her until the sky outside grew dark. She had finished crying, her tears drying on her cheeks, but still she sat against him. She had at some point taken his hand, and was absent-mindedly tracing patterns over his palm. He could tell it calmed her, being with someone. She was not a loner, she never had been. Just the presence of another heartbeat was comforting to her. He was glad to be that heartbeat. "You need to leave," Sansa sighed, after sometime had passed. "The Queen will have someone see to me soon. She has been sending men every night, I think she hopes to have them catch me mourning my traitor family, so that Joffery can issue a punishment he sees fit."

Sandor rose, and Sansa stood with him. "You'll come back?" She asked, her tone hopeful. 

It made his heart ache in his chest, but not in the way it did on seeing her broken-hearted. "Aye. I'll come back, Little Bird. On the morrow."

"Thank you, Sandor," she smiled weakly, look up at him. He grabbed his cloak and lifted the edge to her face, lightly wiping away what remained of her tears before departing.


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an idea of my own creation-- I always imagine Sansa would have frequent nightmares, and I like to think Sandor would help scare them away. (Please leave me prompt ideas here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/chocolate-tequila)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support! Your kudos/comments/etc. truly mean the world to me! (And to every writer you leave them for!)
> 
> *CW - Mention of rape and abuse.*

The nightmares had never stopped. They still haunted her, night after night, preventing her from any true rest. Tonight was no different-- She lay starring at her ceiling, her eyes scrolling over the pattern of cracks in the stone. Sleep never came easy, for she knew what awaited her when her subconscious overtook her. The nightmares that were not nightmares at all, but memories replayed like a queer song one could not rid themselves of, no matter how strong the desire. She tossed in her featherbed, sighing as she nuzzled into her pillow. A Queen with no sleep was a Queen destined for death, but Sansa had been destined for death for a long time now. And yet here she was. Living.

The thought gave little comfort, but comfort enough that she was able to close her eyes. She had thousands ready to protect her now. Thousands who would throw themselves on a blade if it meant she may live-- She would never ask of them such a task, but still, this thought gave comfort. Little comfort after little comfort built a wall inside her head, the same wall she built every night before she slept, the same wall that was dismantled in her nightmares. 

Her nightmares changed often in their stories. Most often they were the face of Ramsay, hovering over her with hellfire burning in his eyes. Always his image brought with it the memories of pain-- She could not feel the pain in her dreams, but it burned her body when she opened her eyes. Sometimes the nightmares were of her lost family, the beheading of her father, the brutal scene she imagined as the deathscene of her eldest brother and mother, the arrow that struck her youngest brother dead... Some nightmares were stories drawn from her own subcosncious, of the things she feared most; more death, more rape, more pain.

She woke to the sound of screaming, and sat bolt-upright in bed, wondering who it was the made the sound, wondering who it was that required assistance. It sounded like the scream of a frightened child, and she prepared herself to leave her room with a small dagger in hand and fight the threat as best she could. It was only when she forced herself to catch her breath that she realized the sound had come from her. Her throat was sore and her cheeks wet with tears. She allowed a sob to escape her, and she pulled her feather-blanket tighter over her, letting out a startled scream as her chamber door flung open.

The Hound stood before her, a sword outstretched as his eyes took scan of the dark room. The only light came from the fullmoon outside, and it cast shadows on the wall, shadows Sansa found herself weary of. "Are you harmed?" Sandor demanded, bristling at the expectation of a battle.

"No, Sandor. I am fine," Sansa offered sheepishly.

"People who are fine don't alert their guardsmen by screaming bloody-murder."

"My apologies, Sandor. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he sheathed his sword, the sound of metal against metal grating to Sansa. "What woke you?"

Sansa considered lying to him. She considered saying a stray rat had crawled across her bed and startled her, but she knew Sandor would be the wiser. She had become quite adept at lying over the years, yet still she could never lie to him. "Nightmares." She felt a fool after admitting it, and pulled her knees to chest, wrapping her arms around them. "Only children are frightened by dreams." She chided herself, resting her chin on her knees. 

"Children dream of ghosts and monsters who live under their bed. I trust your dreams are of neither."

"No," Sansa said coolly, daring to glance up at him. "My dreams are of the monster who lived *in* my bed." 

Sandor's face fell into a look she had never seen on a man before; some combination of hatred and sorrow. She shivered in her featherbed, only partly due to the cold. Her fire had since died, with only a few embers remaining in the hearth. Sandor moved to the stack of firewood she kept near her hearth, grabbing a few small pieces and kneeling down in front of the embers. "You don't have to, Sandor. I know you do not care for fire." He just grunted in response, prodding log and ember until a flame took root, steadily growing, illuminating the room with moon- and fire- light.

"You may be a Northerner, but Northern men still freeze," Sandor chided as he stepped away from the fire, the flames causing shadows to dance across his facial features. Sansa openly starred at him-- His scar was colourless in this light, but tore his face nearly in half, and the shadows that danced along it made the cuts seem deeper, more severe, like rivers jutting through a forest. He had gained new scars over the years, and those too were hooded, shadows dancing across them as he moved. Still, she found no fear in her heart when she looked at his haggard appearance. She thought him handsome, a handsome that went deeper than pretty skin and chiseled jaw. She drew comfort from his appearance, from his ability to appear when he needed her. 

He crossed the room, making for her door now that her breathing had settled and her fire had grown. "Sandor," she called to him, her voice wavering. He stopped in his tracks, turning to look at her. He was wearing a heavy fur cloak that rustled as he spun to face her, and his sword made a light smack against his breeches. "Will you... Will you stay with me?" She felt a fool for asking, for daring to invite another man into her space when her cause for fear had been due to the very reason. But Sandor Clegane was not Ramsay Bolton. Sandor Clegane was not a great man, but he was a good man. He had proven such in fighting the dead, in fighting against Cersei, in returning to her and becoming the head of her Queensguard. He had proven such during all the times he could have done terrible things, and chose not to. 

Even now. It was her alone in her bedchamber. No other guards were around, Sandor had elected to stand guard on this night. He could have been evil, or wicked, but the thought had not crossed his mind, she knew. Even with open invitation to remain, he seemed hesitant. "Please," she whispered, feeling her cheeks heat at the request, thankful that the discolouration in the room would hide her embarrassment. She made room for him to sit next to her on the featherbed, and, hesitantly, he did.

Her bed sagged under his added weight, and the depression in the mattress caused her to fall closer to him. He had taken off his sword and sheath and rest it on the table near her bedside, and she now sat with her legs still under-cover, still close to her chest, and his back nearly resting against them. "I am so tired, Sandor," she admitted, and both knew it was only partially due to her lack of sleep.

Sandor turned to her, running large, calloused fingers through her soft, fine hair. "I know, Little Bird, I know." 

She smiled at the nickname, feeling a wave of peace rush over her. Little Bird. She was always safe when he called her Little Bird. "Will you sit with me, just until I fall asleep?"

He nodded, and she smiled. She stretched her legs out once more, her feathercover resting over them, Sandor sitting near to them, with his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled the cover up over her shoulder she settled onto her side, and his fingers brushed her red hair from her face, lightly grazing her cheek. "Goodnight, Little Bird."

"Goodnight, Sandor."

She awoke late the next morning, the sun at full height and beating through her chamber window. She felt rested, more rested than she could even remember. She had not been plagued by nightmares for the second-half of the eve. And she felt warm. So warm. She turned under the cover, slowly sitting upright. Sandor's fur cloak was draped over her, twice her size and warmer than the fire that had once again turned to glowing embers in the hearth. She pulled it tightly around her, inhaling. The smell of pine greeted her, and she remembered her dream, the dream that had not been a nightmare, the dream that had kept the nightmares away-- She had been seated in the wood, the smell of pine overpowering all else, and a scruffy dog lying happily at her feet.


	4. Happy Nameday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's Nameday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been quite awhile since the last update! Hope to post a few more this weekend. This one was pretty spur of the moment and not super developed, but I'm always a sucker for a good birthday gift. Thank you all so much for the ongoing support!

Sansa was focused on her reflection in the mirror when the knock sounded at her door. She pulled the brush through her auburn hair a last time before rising from her seat and crossing the room, pulling the door open. Sandor Clegane stood in the entryway, looking confused and prepared for battle, one fist wrapped firmly around the pommel of his barely-sheathed sword. “You sent for me,” the Hound said simply, his eyes settling on hers.

“I did,” Sansa grinned. “You can relax, Sandor. I did not send for you because I am in danger.” He grunted and tucked the entirety of his sword in its sheath, but relaxed only slightly. Sansa had been in King’s Landing for what felt like forever, though her circumstances had significantly improved since the death of Joffrey.

The people had decided on blaming Tyrion, and when he had disappeared their accusations had only felt confirmed. Tommen took the throne and the Queen, and though he did not allow Sansa to leave, he treated her with kindness. He had even commanded the Hound to watch over her, to keep her safe, as there were those in the city who still blamed her for Joffrey’s death, and more.

Sansa still missed her family more than her heart could fathom, but she had begun to find sparse moments of happiness in King’s Landing. Most of these moments came from the man standing in front of her. The Hound. They were moments of laughter when she had begged to hold his sword, and not managed to hold it upright for more than a few seconds. They were moments of tears when her heart all but exploded and he was the only one there to place a hand on her shoulder. They were moments of walking side by side through King’s Landing and creating false narratives of the people they passed. There were so many moments, and she cherished them.

“Then why did you send for me?” He was still so formal, as though the moments they shared were meant to be fleeting, moments meant to be happened-upon and not carried into anything more. It frustrated her, but his exterior was quick to crack when she ignored it.

She had dashed to her vanity, pulling a small box from one of its drawers. She extended it out towards him now, a sweet smile gracing her lips, “Happy nameday, Sandor.”

The look on his face made her giggle. His façade turned into a look of surprise, his eyes widening and a brow quirking. “How do you know it’s my--”

“--just take the present, Sandor.” She smiled, making a motion with her hands to draw his attention to it.

He looked at it quizzically, which only made her smile more. She loved the moments where she was able to see him, all of him, not the him he presented to the rest of the world. He took the box from her hands, and flipped the lid off with a thumb. “Sansa…” His voice drifted off as he pulled the small toy from the box. It was smaller than the palm of his hand, but it had taken Sansa a few days of work to craft.

She was certain you could tell it was a wooden knight. She had taken time to chisel the figure a helm and sword, though the body in between was rough and bumpy. It looked like the craftsmanship of a five year old, but Sansa was proud of her work all the same. “I know it’s quite rough. And it probably is not as nice as the one you wanted when you were a child, but--”

Her sentence was lost on his lips when they pressed against hers. He is kissing me! She was confused, she would never have expected him to do such a thing… And yet… And yet it felt like she had been waiting for him too. His rough lips made her heart flutter, and her eyes closed as she stood on her tiptoes to better reach his kiss. That seemed to encourage him, and his free hand found its way to just above her hip, resting there. She lifted her own hand, placing it lightly against his scarred cheek.

He pulled away suddenly, his eyes going wide. “I shouldn’t have, I’m--”

“--No,” Sansa smiled. “I am glad you did.”

He smiled, the genuine smile she saw so rarely, and loved so much. He looked at the knight in his hand, his thumb still running over the carving. They heard his name echo in the hallway, someone was coming for him. He closed his hands over the toy, and she laid hers on top. “I hope you enjoy your gift… And I think I know what I would like for my nameday,” she smirked, once again reaching-up on her tiptoes and placing a gentle kiss on his lips.


End file.
